


Enter the King

by lostsoul512



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Gen, vague implications of wranduin because I can't control myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2019-02-05 09:14:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12791430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostsoul512/pseuds/lostsoul512
Summary: He is young but he is not defenseless, and he will do whatever is needed to protect his people.





	Enter the King

**Author's Note:**

> Oneshot set during the BFA trailer~ 
> 
> Special thanks to what_the_fel for editing/tolerating me.

Anduin Wrynn is not meant to be a soldier.

He realizes this at a young age, standing in the courtyard of Stormwind Keep with the summer sun beating down on him and a dulled blade in his hand. Bolvar hovers above him, correcting his posture, his footing, his grip on the sword, his- everything, really. Anduin tries to tell him, but the paladin just ruffles his hair, tells him that he'll grow into it, tells him that he should have seen his father when he was Anduin's age- could barely even lift a sword.

Anduin doesn't want to see his father as a child; he wants to see him now. He almost tells Bolvar that too, but he stops himself- the last time he mentioned the absent king, Lady Prestor scolded him endlessly, said he ought to stop dwelling and let it be. Varian Wrynn is gone, and he is never coming back.

He cried for hours, but he lied when Bolvar asked him what was wrong. Bolvar doesn't like it when Anduin says things about Lady Prestor. Anduin is young, but not so young that he hasn't figured out this is because Bolvar likes Lady Prestor- he caught them kissing in the corridor once, before his nanny hurried him back to his room.

Anduin is a good boy, though, so he does as he's told. He doesn't talk about his father. He doesn't talk about Lady Prestor. He adjusts his posture, his footing, his grip on the sword.

Bolvar tells him to try again, and so he does that too, swinging the practice sword at the practice dummy like his life depends on it. He doesn't close his eyes- Bolvar says that's a poor habit to pick up- but he pretends that the stitched straw is one of the men that took his father away from him.

Anduin is not an angry person- he has never thrown tantrums or acted out- but he is angry now. He is angry at whoever stole his father for leaving him alone in a city that is supposed to be home but has never felt so unfamiliar. He is angry at Katrana Prestor for telling him what to do and how to act and who to be, and he is angry at Bolvar for letting her.

He is angry because people keep telling him to act like an adult- like a king- but he is ten and terrified and alone and he doesn't want to be a king or a soldier.

He doesn't hear Bolvar calling his name. He doesn't know that he is crying. He doesn't realize that he's plunged the sword straight into the dummy until he feels the immense relief from its weight.

He doesn't realize he has fallen to the ground until he sees Bolvar's hand outstretched towards him, a silent offer of aid.

"Leave him."

Anduin feels the presence of Lady Prestor more than he hears the sound of her voice. She is slinking into the garden, a scowl etched into her features. She always looks upset and her words always spit venom- or fire.

"Leave him," she repeats. "A king must learn how to pick himself back up."

Bolvar is glancing between them, but he relents, and after a moment Anduin pushes himself up, dusting off his knees and smoothing out his clothes. The paladin asks if he is alright; when he answers, Anduin is looking directly at Lady Prestor. "Yes," he says, and it's the first time he's felt like he's answered the question honestly in as long as he can remember.

Bolvar decides to stop for the day- somewhere off to the side, Lady Prestor scoffs, a sound that drips disapproval. Anduin is a good boy, so he nods, and he lets Bolvar lead him out of the courtyard, back into the Keep that is supposed to feel like home but has never felt more unfamiliar. He doesn't bother retrieving the sword- he leaves it there, pretending it is a warning against his apparent enemies- he is young but he is not defenseless, and he will do whatever is needed to protect his people, just as he imagines Varian would have done.

…

The battle is endless.

Endless troops that have gathered from every corner of Azeroth, endless streams of spilled blood, endless lives gone before he could so much as blink.

Anduin Wrynn is not meant to be a soldier.

The battle is endless- the air is thick with the hum of magic and smoke from the trebuchet. The screams are endless, too, and he is surrounded by them- some are battle cries and some are death cries, and they've blurred together into one endless symphony composed of chaos, of suffering and pain and defeat.

Genn is screaming, too- orders, curses, warnings- but Anduin can barely hear him over the sound of his own pulse pounding relentlessly within him. It echoes in the armor, he thinks, and he is half-convinced everyone else can hear it too.

He can hear Bolvar's voice, though- it is in the back of his mind, and that's echoing too- he's telling him to fix his posture, his footing, his grip on the sword. It's no longer the training sword from his youth, but the great blade Shalamayne. It's heavier than Anduin expected, but he's starting to get used to it- like most things he's inherited from his father.

The battle is endless, and he's surrounded by screaming, but no one screams quite like the Banshee Queen Sylvanas Windrunner. It's not a scream- it's a shriek, piercing as her arrows. She writhes through his troops like a wraith, ending anyone unfortunate enough to get in her way, and he watches helplessly as they fall.

Anduin Wrynn is not meant to be a soldier. He'd told Bolvar so when he was ten years old, and he'd told Genn again before they'd marched on Lordaeron- or what used to be Lordaeron, before death claimed that too.

Anduin Wrynn is, apparently, not meant to be a king either, because they had marched regardless.

And now it seems that half of the Alliance lays dead before him, and the Banshee Queen is determined to take the other half down too.

Anduin is not an angry person, but he is angry now. He is angry at everyone responsible for the death of his father. He is angry at Jaina for abandoning her visions of peace, and he is angry at the Black fucking Prince for just abandoning him. He is angry at his father for being bravely stupid and stupidly brave. He is angry at the Banshee Queen because once she was a great hero that had been forced to watch the slaughter of her people, and now she was slaughtering his like she has no idea how it feels to lose everything. He is angry at Genn for leading them into his disastrous battle, and he is angry at himself for letting him.

He clings to his anger like a weapon- or a shield- because lately it seems like it is all that he has, because it has become familiar to him, because it is what his father would have done.

But anger is, apparently, not enough, and he decides this right about the time he feels his body collide with the ground. The armor is too heavy; it's weighing him down and all at once the anger dissipates, leaving him vacant and helpless- he is ten and terrified and alone, a child playing king.

Genn is reaching for him; he's saying his name, but it isn't his voice that he hears- it's the unforgettable, unmistakable tone of Katrana Prestor that rings in his head- a king must learn how to pick himself back up.

Lady Prestor had been cruel and callous, vindictive and malicious, but she'd been right about one thing.

When he pushes himself back onto his feet, ignoring the crying muscles and aching joints.

He tells himself that he's alright, and it's the first time he's believed it in as long as he can remember. Shalamayne glows golden in his grasp; for so long Anduin has believed that rage is all he has left, but the pale radiance reminds him that there is so much more, that he is not alone, that the Light has never left him.

He releases his grip on his anger and the blade at the same time- he leaves it there, protruding from the bloodsoaked battlefield, a warning against those that would try to take his kingdom- he is young but he is not defenseless, and he will do whatever is needed to protect his people.

It feels something like waking up from a long nightmare, this revelation- he is not a soldier, he is not a fighter, but that does not make him weak.


End file.
